Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“Well, typically when someone runs for president, they have some, you know, reason. Other than, say, hating the current president. They’re called ‘issues.’”

“I have a platform.”

“I must have missed that press release. And what does it consist of? If you say Transitioning, I’m going to stab you in the heart with this pen.”

“As a matter of fact, Transitioning is indeed part of my platform. Fiscal responsibility. Not handing on debt to the next generation. Accountability. Leadership-”

“Don’t forget global warming. Where do you stand on violent crime?”

“I’m against it,” Randy said, rising out of his chair. “Look, I could use you.”

“You already did.”

“I know you’re sore. I don’t blame you. I was an ass. And maybe it sounds grandiose to say, ‘I’m going to run for president.’ But ever since that day I walked into the JFK Library-”

“Tripping your brains out on LSD. That’ll make for a stirring announcement speech.”

“All right, we’ll leave out that part of it. Point is, I feel that this is what my life is directed toward. Fate put us together in that minefield in Bosnia.”

“You wanting a gourmet meal put us in that minefield.”

“I’m trying to explain why I’m running for president.”

“Randy, I’m not interested. I don’t care. Want to give a speech? Go do it on C-SPAN.”

Randy stood up. He looked at Terry. Terry shrugged. Randy walked to the door. He said, “Your generation is being bankrupted by my generation. I want to do something about it. There’s a presidential election coming up, and I’m going to be in it. I could use you-I mean, I need you. But okay. Good luck with your salamanders.”

He left.

Terry said to Cass, “Say what you will, the man knows how to make an exit.”

Cass hardly slept that night, and not because she was wired on Red Bull or blogging. The next morning, as she blearily read the computer screen to find out what the rest of the world had done, she saw the bulletin from the White House announcing that Franklin Cohane, the billionaire California software entrepreneur, had been appointed finance chairman of the Committee to Reelect President Peacham.

She called Randy on his cell phone. “Okay,” she said. “I’m in.”

“Oh, darling,” Randy said, “that’s wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.”

“Whatever,” she said, and hung up.

Gideon Payne, too, had been having a hard time getting through to the president, and this chafed. He was even having a hard time getting through to Bucky Trumble. Just who did Mr. Buckminster Trumble think he was ? The White House might be busy, but Gideon was not used to having hours go by before his phone calls were returned. The cheek of these people.

It had been a tumultuous couple of months. First the deplorable episode at Monsignor Montefeltro’s involving the Russian jezebels. His watch-gone. Probably hocked by the strumpets for drug money. He still unconsciously patted his vest pockets for it. He’d hired a private investigator to scour the capital’s pawnshops and antique jewelry stores, looking for it.

Then there was the commission and Cassandra Devine’s surprise gesture of reconciliation. What had prompted that? Was it really just the sight of his bandaged head? Or had some deeper, inner decency prompted it? He yearned for another touch of her hand but knew-knew in his heart of hearts-that there would not be another. She and Jepperson, that ass Yankee opportunist, were going to marry, so the rumor was.

As for the work of the commission itself, Gideon had made his feelings plain to Chairman Bascombe P. Bledsoe. Bledsoe seemed determined to put an end to the wretched business with his “Further study is needed” ruling. Jepperson’s Transitioning bill was now stalled in the Senate, going nowhere.

Meanwhile, Elderheaven’s profits were up 50 percent, thanks to the new actuarial software that Sidney, his chief operating officer, had purchased-at some considerable cost-from that software company in California. The software allowed Elderheaven to be selective in deciding which old folks to admit, and so far, it had been brilliantly accurate. The recent admissions had been dropping like flies, right and left, after signing over their life savings, leaving Elderheaven awash in cash. Which was good, since Elderheaven and Gideon needed cash to settle the damn Arthur Clumm-related lawsuits. But at this rate, the company would be able to expand, rolling up more and more nursing homes. The future looked very green indeed. And there was nothing like money to pump a man up, fill him with confidence. Gideon felt like sashaying on down to the White House, banging on the door, and demanding that the president declare his support-wholehearted support, none of this no-objection-in-principle gargle-for Gideon’s memorial to the 43 million. The time for equivocation was over. Had he not fought the president’s battles on the commission? Gideon was owed .

“Gideon! I’m so sorry not to have called you until now,” said Bucky. “I’ve been busier than a one-legged Cajun in an…” No , he told himself, don’t use the “one-legged Cajun in an ass-kicking contest” joke with a man who calls himself “Reverend.” “Well, busier than all get-out. How are you? How’s everything?”

“Well, I’m fine now,” Gideon said. “I’m happy finally to hear from you, Bucky.”

“I know, I know. Huge apologies. Profound apologies. So, the commission seems to have worked out.”

“I would have preferred a more categorical denunciation. But I suppose in an imperfect world, ‘Further study is needed’ amounts to a kind of victory,” Gideon said.

“Off the record, we leaned on old Bascombe pretty hard. Don’t be surprised if he’s appointed to the Federal Reserve Board one of these days.”

“My, my, my,” Gideon said, “how very different are the workings of government from what we all read about in books as children. I wonder, do the Founders weep in heaven?”

“It’s good to hear your voice, Gideon. We’re going to need you in the coming months. We’ve got a tough road ahead of us.”

“So it would appear. I have seen the latest approval ratings. Thirty-one percent. My, my, my. Would that be a historical low for someone seeking a second term of office?”

Bucky cleared his throat. “No, no. But clearly, it’s not where we want to be. That’s why we’re counting on you so much to help get out our message.”

“Which message would that be, exactly?”

“I hardly need to tell you. Our message is your message. Vigorous moral leadership for troubled times.”

“Yes, well we certainly could use some of that . Couldn’t agree more. Which brings me to the purpose of my call.…”

Bucky groaned inwardly. Here it comes. Should I pretend that the president’s just buzzed me-

“The memorial.”

Shit, too late. “The president has already signaled his support for that, Gideon.”

“Yes. A very wispy signal. Reminded me of the smoke signals that the Indians in the cowboy movies used to send to one another. I had in mind something with a little more, shall we say, oom-pa-pah?”

“Gideon…”

“Bucky…”

“Have a heart. It’s an election year. We’re in the worst economic shape since 1929. Due to circumstances beyond the president’s control, of course. The economy’s flatter’n a pancake. The government’s hemorrhaging money. A memorial to forty-three million fetuses-pardon the expression-is just not”-he sighed-“at the top of anyone’s agenda right now. But I promise, right after the election, we will…make it happen…somehow.”